


Five Times Dark Bothered The Doctor, And One Time He Didn't

by a_nonny_moose



Series: 100 Quote Prompts [14]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 20:40:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11425794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: Dark's been hanging around the clinic lately, and Dr. Iplier doesn't like it one bit.





	Five Times Dark Bothered The Doctor, And One Time He Didn't

“Do you think you could show me?” 

The sound of ringing in his ears, Dr. Iplier turned from Bim, his latest patient, to see Dark standing in the doorway of his makeshift clinic. 

“What, Dark?”

“I said,” Dark huffed a little, moving to stand next to the Doctor, “could you show me how you heal people?”

Dr. Iplier eyed Dark suspiciously. “Why should I?”

Dark looked down, as if in guilt or embarrassment. The uncomfortable buzzing of his aura subsided for a moment. “Curiosity,” he muttered, folding his hands behind him. 

Dr. Iplier looked Dark up and down once more, then to Bim. “Is it all right with you, Bim, if Dark stays to watch?”

Bim sat on the edge of the exam table, holding out an arm covered in scratches, bent at an odd angle. With a wince, he nodded. 

Dr. Iplier gestured to Dark with a gloved hand to move back, give them space, and bent over Bim’s arm. Dark moved behind the Doctor, peeking over his shoulder despite himself. He’d never seen the Doctor’s powers at work, and as of late, he was more interested than ever.

The Doctor put his gloved hands gently over Bim’s arm. “How did this happen?” he said, feeling gently for the injuries.

Bim muffled another wince. “The last interview didn’t go as well as planned. Wilford was really upset.” He lapsed in silence, watching Dr. Iplier press his fingers gently across the deep, bleeding scrapes on his arm, still held awkwardly outwards.

“It’s a hairline fracture,” Dr. Iplier said, finally. He reached for sterile wipes, and began to clean the blood off of Bim’s arm, staunching further bleeding. “I’m going to kill Warfstache,” he muttered as he cleaned, brow furrowing.

Dark watched the Doctor work in silence, almost admiring his work. The Doctor was one of the few professionals in the building, and surprisingly competent to boot. No magic, yet, though– only doctorly actions.

Dr. Iplier straightened up, throwing away the bloodied wipes and gloves. “I’ll have to make skin contact,” he reassured Bim, dousing his hands in sanitizer. Bim nodded, watching the Doctor move in silence. 

Dark was almost on his tiptoes, peering over at Dr. Iplier’s work. He made to take Bim’s arm, but stopped.

“Dark,” Dr. Iplier said, voice hard. “I’m sure Bim and I would appreciate it if you gave us some room, and stopped bothering us so much.”

Dark swallowed a little, stepping back with a slight click of his heels. “Apologies, Doctor.”

With a sigh, Dr. Iplier took Bim’s arm in his hands, gently pressing his fingers into his hurt flesh. Bim’s arm twitched a little, flinching.

“Sorry,” Dr. Iplier said, adjusting his grip. 

Slowly, he closed his eyes, focusing hard on Bim’s arm. Dark took the opportunity to inch closer, eyes on the Doctor’s hands.

From his hands came a soft blue glow, a ball of energy moving into Bim’s arm. As Dark watched, Bim’s arm became less red, the swelling going down like a deflating balloon. The bone shifted ever so slightly, and a wave of relief passed over Bim’s face. Dark’s eyes grew wide, watching the deep scrapes on Bim’s forearm rapidly web over with blood clots, then new skin. 

In seconds, Bim’s arm looked as good as new.

Dr. Iplier blinked open his eyes, furrowing his brow. The act of healing Bim had taken a lot out of him, and he staggered backwards a step. 

Dark moved forward to put a hand against the Doctor’s back. “That was… impressive,” Dark said, smiling.

Dr. Iplier felt a shiver go down his spine. Dark was looking down at him the way one might look at a shiny new knife: seizing him up, ready to be used. He stiffened, nodding curtly to Dark as thanks. “Bim, how’s your arm?”

Dark dropped his arm from Dr. Iplier as he suddenly moved away, all business.

By the time Dr. Iplier had finished checking Bim for other injuries, sending him on his way with instructions to admonish Wilford, Dark had disappeared. 

Dark walked into the clinic, dragging a bloodied Wilford. Dr. Iplier, seeing them, dropped his paperwork. 

“What did you do?!” 

Dark deposited Wilford heavily into a chair, glaring up at the Doctor. “Wilford here decided that it would be a good idea to sneak a serving of the Host’s breakfast while he, ah, wasn’t ‘looking.’” 

Dr. Iplier scowled at him before turning to Wilford. Despite Dark’s annoyance, the Doctor could detect a twisted kind of amusement under his cool demeanor. It pissed him off, how cold and unfeeling Dark was, even now that he’d resigned himself to life among the rest of the Egos. 

He turned his full attention to Wilford, who looked more annoyed than upset. Blood was leaking through the sleeve of his shirt, and his face was paling quickly, for all his bravado.

“Hosty just got me in the arm, is all,” he scoffed, holding out his forearm for the Doctor to see. 

Dr. Iplier inwardly sighed. One normal day in this house is all I ask, he thought, grabbing a pair of tongs to extricate the butter knife embedded two inches deep into Wilford’s flesh. 

“Hold still, okay?”

“Oh, boy, that hurts, Doc.”

“I haven’t touched–”

“–But I bet it’ll hurt when you do,” Wilford said, wiggling his mustache at the Doctor, smug even in his weakness, blood draining onto the floor.

Without warning, Dr. Iplier ripped the knife from Wilford’s arm. He had to admit, watching Wilford roar in pain, that the Host had the right idea to keep Wilford out of his hair. 

Dark stood back, forcing himself to keep a straight face, struggling to keep a chuckle from forming in his throat. The Doctor was, if nothing else, efficient. As he carefully cut Wilford’s sleeve open and staunched the bleeding, Dark allowed himself a smirk. 

There was a blue glow emanating from Dr. Iplier’s hands again, and Dark watched in fascination as Wilford’s skin knitted itself back together. 

“Be careful,” Dr. Iplier warned, already knowing that his words were falling on deaf ears. Wilford was stretching and flexing his arm, seemingly impressed.

Dark watched as Wilford shook the Doctor’s hand, enthusiastic, and left the clinic to cause mayhem elsewhere. Dr. Iplier looked Dark over suspiciously. 

“Is there a reason you’re still here, Dark?” he bent over his desk, reordering his abandoned paperwork.

“Your skills are quite… useful, Doctor.” 

Dr. Iplier straightened up to tell Dark off, but faced an empty room, echoing with a chuckle. He pushed his hair behind his head mirror, sighing. One day, he thought, without Dark bothering me, is all I ask.

It was late afternoon, and the Doctor was wrapping bandages, cleaning the clinic for the day. The other Egos had been adventuring outside all day, presumably under competent supervision. Nonetheless, he expected one of them to stumble into the office at any moment, hurt because of someone’s stupidity or the other. 

It was quite the surprise, then, when Bim rushed in, trailed by the other Egos, clutching a bundle in his suit jacket. “Doc! You have to help!”

Dr. Iplier didn’t know what he expected, but the answer was definitely not a small, rather angry-looking bird. Bim held the bird gingerly, wrapped in his jacket like a blanket. 

“It’s wing is broken! can you fix it?”

“I-I’m not exactly a vet, Bim.”

“Can you at least try?”

Dr. Iplier looked around at the other Egos– Wilford, hovering over Bim’s shoulder, trying to pet the bird; Oliver, politely curious; and Dark. He sighed.

“Put the bird on the table, Bim. I’ll see what I can do.”

Amid a lot of squawking, ruffled feathers, and clawing talons, Bim and the Doctor managed to hold the bird in place on the table long enough for Dr. Iplier to press his fingers to the injured wing. A flash of blue light, rather than a pulse, and a sickening snap– the bird darted into the air, landing on one of the Doctor’s cabinets to glare at them all.

Dr. Iplier shook his head, ignoring Bim’s ecstatic thanks. “Just… get it out of the building,” he said, starting for the kitchen. Wilford and Bim immediately began stepping towards the bird, crouched, intent. 

On his way out the door, Dr. Iplier stopped to see Dark surveying the bird with approval. 

“Dark, is there something I need to know?”

“Hm?” Dark turned politely towards the Doctor, his grin never quite reaching his eyes. 

“You keep hanging around the clinic, bothering me and my patients,” he said, the statement almost accusing. “Is there something going on?”

Dark had the gall to look puzzled, drawing his eyebrows down in an expression of confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Doctor.”

Dr. Iplier, restraining himself from punching Dark right in his smiling, sneering face, turned and walked away. Dark coffee was a lot more appealing than facing Dark, just now. 

When the Host walked into the clinic for a routine bandage change, Dr. Iplier double checked to make sure that Dark was nowhere nearby before locking the clinic door behind him. 

“The Host would like to know why the Doctor is on edge,” he said quietly, sitting on the exam table, as Dr. Iplier unwound his stained bandages.

Dr. Iplier sighed. “Dark’s been hanging around a lot,” he replied, gently setting down the bandages and reaching for sterile wipes. “I don’t know what he’s up to, but he gives me the creeps.”

The Host, flinching a little at the mention of Dark, allowed himself a grim chuckle. “Dark has never been up to any good, and the Host would warn the Doctor against entertaining him.” 

Dr. Iplier frowned, silent, wiping the Host’s eyes clear of blood. Finally, he spoke, voice low. “I’m just… worried.”

“Why?” The Host matched the Doctor’s tone, if more gently.

Dr. Iplier set down the wipes, and, sighing, reached for a fresh set of bandages. “He looks at me like… like he’s planning something. Like he’s got something in mind for me.” He finished winding the bandage around the Host’s head, securing the end with a slight tug. “Is that comfortable?”

The Host reached a hand up to adjust the bandage across the bridge of his nose. He was lot in thought, feeling at his face. Finally, he nodded.

“Any other pain?” Dr. Iplier stepped back, grabbing a pad of paper and pen.

“I…” The Host hesitated a little, standing up. “I wish you would not worry about Dark so much.”

“Host–”

“He bothers you.”

It was a statement instead of a question, and Dr. Iplier was silent, pen still poised over his clipboard.

The Host shook his head a little, adjusting his bandages a final time. “I– the Host– am all right, thanks to your help, Doctor. Because you sought the Host out and forced him to seek help.” The Host started for the door, lost in thought. At the doorstep, he turned back to the Doctor. “The Host wishes that you would do the same.”

A click of the handle, and the Host was gone, leaving Dr. Iplier alone with his thoughts. 

“Sentimental,” a sneer came from behind him, and Dr. Iplier whipped around. Dark sat behind him, lounging in a chair.

“Dark?” The Doctor dropped his pen, and it rolled towards Dark’s feet, clad in obnoxiously shiny loafers. “What– How long have you been here?!”

Dark’s only response was a chuckle, bending to pick up the dropped pen. With an amused smile, he stood to offer the Doctor his pen. “Long enough to wonder why your lovely healing power doesn’t work on the Host’s–”

Dr. Iplier snarled, snatching the pen out of Dark’s fingers. “Get out. And don’t come back.”

A laugh, a swirl of black smoke, and the Doctor swung, punching at empty air. 

Dr. Iplier somehow knew that Wilford was the one that pulled the fire alarm, even before he rushed out of his office. 

“Wilford, what are you doing? I’m trying to get work–” He stopped mid-shout, seeing how paled Wilford’s face was. “Did–”

“It’s Bim,” he whispered, cutting the alarm short. Without another word, Dr. Iplier ran beside him to the recording studio.

When they skidded to a stop in front of the door, the Doctor could see the last wisps of miasma escaping from the crack underneath it. He looked at Wilford, struggling to turn the handle.

“Dark?”

“Dark.”

Together, they forced the door open. As Dr. Iplier stepped in, he could hear Dark’s aura ringing around the room. However, even fear of Dark took second place to the scene before him. 

Bim lay in the middle of the room, in a pool of light, in a puddle of his own blood, the knife wound in his chest staining his shirt. Dr. Iplier ran forward, pulling gauze out of the pockets of his coat. He knelt next to Bim, blood seeping into the knees of his pants. Wilford followed him, steps heavy in the darkened studio.

“I don’t know why,” Wilford said, watching Dr. Iplier hold the gauze over Bim’s streaming wound. “Dark just popped in while we were filming, and- and–”

“It’s okay, Will,” the Doctor said, shushing him. “He’ll be okay, just– could you grab more bandages from my office?”

Wilford nodded, hurrying out, leaving the Doctor and Bim alone in the room. Dr. Iplier muttered to himself, putting pressure on Bim’s chest. He sent several blue flashes through to Bim, almost like the glow of a defibrillator. The bleeding wasn’t stopping.

“Dark, I know you’re somewhere here listening,” he growled, creating another pulse of light. “And if this is your idea of bothering me, or getting attention–” he paused to send a more powerful glow into Bim’s chest, lighting the room for a moment, “–fuck you.”

The room seemed to reverberate, and Dark’s presence was gone, like a shadow slipping out of sight. 

Wilford ran back in, arms full of gauze. “I didn’t know which bandages you meant,” he panted, “so I got one of everything.”

Dr. Iplier restrained himself from rolling his eyes, removing his hands from Bim’s chest. His stab wound wasn’t as puckered, as raw, but still steadily bubbled with blood that covered the floor, his suit, and the Doctor’s hands. Dr. Iplier picked through the pile of supplies Wilford had gotten, a little bewildered. He didn’t even have those kinds of bandages–

Finally finding a sheet of gauze, he folded it and handed it to Wilford. Wilford raised an eyebrow, looking at him skeptically. “I’m no doctor, Doc.”

“Shut up and follow directions, Will,” the Doctor sighed, pushing back his hair with bloody fingers. 

As Wilford gently pressed the gauze against Bim’s chest, finally staunching the flow of blood, Dr. Iplier ripped the rest of Bim’s shirt open to lay his hands fully on Bim’s chest, feeling for internal damage.

“He was lucky,” Dr. Iplier muttered, working his fingers around the gaping, clotted wound itself. “No lung damage.”

“Will he be okay?” Wilford asked, looking up at the Doctor with what could be described as fear. Dr. Iplier, looking at Wilford, was touched by the amount of sympathy in his voice. 

“He’ll be fine, just a little sore.” Dr. Iplier looked back at Bim and pressed his hands over the wound, hard. A sustained glow of light pulsed from his palms into Bim’s chest, growing in intensity, then fading with a flash. 

Dr. Iplier removed his hands to survey his work, rubbing his bloody hands against the fabric of his jeans. Bim was breathing normally again, no longer in short, panicky bursts, and was beginning to stir, the color returning to his face. His bare chest, stained with blood in the shape of trails and handprints, now bore a scar. 

WIlford, seeing that Bim was stirring, poked the scar unhelpfully. “Why’s there a scar, Doc? Normally you heal us without a scratch.”

Dr. Iplier shook his head, a little light-headed from the exertion. “Life-threatening wounds normally leave a scar. I’m not perfect, Will.”

Wilford looked at him with a modicum of respect that the Doctor had never seen Wilford show anyone. “You’re good enough, Doc. Thank you.”

A little startled, Dr. Iplier nodded. 

Bim’s eyes flickered open, and he winced. “W-what happened? Will? Doc?”

“I think I can handle this,” Wilford said quietly, looking at Bim eye the two of them in confusion.

Dr. Iplier, against his better judgement, recognized the dismissal. He scooped the rest of the bandages that Wilford had brought into his arms, half of them now stained with blood, and stood. 

“Thanks again, Doc.”

Dr. Iplier nodded at Wilford, then Bim, and walked out of the studio. Down the hall, he saw Dark’s door slam closed.

Dr. Iplier was sleeping fitfully, fighting imaginary shadows of Dark, when his phone rang.

“H-hello?”

“Doctor.” Dark’s voice came over the phone, and Dr. Iplier was instantly wide awake.

“What do you want?” He snapped, the words coming out harsh and accusatory.

On the other end of the line, he could hear Dark take a deep, shaking breath. “Please, Doctor, could you come to my room?”

Suspicion aroused, Dr. Iplier sat up in bed. “How do I know this isn’t a trick?”

Dark’s voice changed, his usual demeanor dropping. Something like a plea came over the line. “You don’t. Please.”

“I–” The Doctor blinked, realizing he was talking to a dial tone. He sat in bed for another moment before cursing under his breath, ripping the covers off of him, and jumping up. Evil dark entity or not, Dark had sounded upset. Hurt, maybe. And what kind of doctor was he, to ignore something like that? He pulled on pants, and, grabbing his head mirror and first aid, walked out of his room and down the hall towards Dark’s door. 

Approaching the door, he slowed, reconsidering. This was a trap. It was the most obvious trap. He should turn back, at least go get one of the Googles to walk in with him–

Dark’s door opened, a tendril of smoke turning the handle before dissipating into the darkness of the hallway. Dr. Iplier took a tentative step into the room, pitch black. 

“Thank you,” Dark said, from the blackness, sounding strained. “Doctor, I know this seems strange, but please, come in.”

Dr. Iplier clutched the first-aid kit a little closer to his chest, moving into the room. The door shut with a gentle click behind him, and he jumped– he could hear Dark snap his fingers, and the lights in his office flared to life. 

He didn’t know why he hadn’t smelled the blood before walking in. Dark stood, chin raised defiantly, but leaning heavily on his desk for support. His suit, the usual black and white, was ripped and stained with black smears of blood. He stood with a hand pressed to his side, blood leaking from between his fingers. His usual aura, the ringing, the bravado, was gone, for now. He looked the Doctor in the eye with the air of a vulnerable man with too much pride to act vulnerable. 

Dr. Iplier, forgetting his fear, focused in on the matter at hand. He rushed forward to help Dark into a chair, setting the first-aid kit down on the desk.

Dark stifled a groan of pain as he sat down stiffly, still holding his side. “I’d like to thank you for your speedy response.”

Dr. Iplier was already helping Dark out of his jacket, then ripped shirt, shaking his head. “How did this happen, Dark?” 

Dark hissed in pain as he removed his jacket, twisting his bruised skin. “Unimportant.”

“Not unimportant,” Dr. Iplier snapped, removing Dark’s hand from his side to reveal a deep gash, gushing black blood as the pressure moved away. Dark winced, looking down at himself. Dr. Iplier knelt to look over his wounds at eye level. “Tell me.”

Dark sighed, resigned, as the Doctor reached for gauze to stop the bleeding. “This office doesn’t go as unnoticed as you’d think, Doctor. For lack of a better word, several ‘fans’ have come by, looking for trouble, a free computer, or,” he sneered, “Mark.” 

“What does that have to do with,” Dr. Iplier gestured to the wounds on Dark’s body, dropping the soiled gauze and moving to grab tweezers instead, “this?”

Dark watched the Doctor pick up the tweezers with narrowed eyes. “Where is that going?”

“Oh, hush, you big baby. This won’t hurt a bit,” Dr. Iplier said, leaning over one of the wounds in Dark’s stomach. “Go on,” he prompted, ignoring Dark’s glare.

“They’ve been trying to get close to the office for months,” Dark mumbled, still watching the tweezers suspiciously. “Trying to break in. Trying to ‘explore.’ Tonight– ARGH!”

Dr. Iplier looked up, holding the remnants of a bullet, dripping with blood and a string of tissue. He put it aside, hiding a smile. “You were saying, Dark?”

Gritting his teeth, Dark watched the Doctor staunch the new stream of blood. His breathing slowed a little, still labored under the pain. “Tonight, they got a little too close to the office. I was protecting the office, that’s all.”

Dr. Iplier looked up at Dark suspiciously, still holding gauze to his chest. “Are they…”

Dark looked at the Doctor, face hard. “They won’t be a problem anymore.”

The Doctor decided not to ask, sighing heavily. He checked the gauze, carefully lifting it away from Dark’s skin. It was stained with blood, but all the bleeding had stopped. 

“I can heal you now, but you’re going to be sore for a few days. Dark,” he said, frowning, “why didn’t you tell anyone else about this…problem?”

“It wasn’t a problem,” Dark muttered, averting his eyes. He looked staunchly off into the distance, and the Doctor could only shrug at his stubbornness. There was only so much he could do, after all. 

For once, as Dr. Iplier placed his hands on Dark’s bare chest, he didn’t feel Dark’s eyes on him. A blue glow filled the office, almost blinding, and Dark felt his chest grow warmer. A flash of heat, a flash of light, and Dr. Iplier’s hands dropped tiredly back into his lap.

Dark looked down, hesitant. His chest, paler than usual, now carried scars. A thin line along his side, a clean-punched hole by his heart.

“You were hurt pretty bad,” Dr. Iplier said, beginning to clean up. 

“You have my thanks, Doctor.” Dark made to stand, but Dr. Iplier was already on his feet, leaning over Dark. 

“Stay sitting down,” he said, voice gentle, hands firm. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

Grudgingly, crossing his arms like a pouting child, Dark sat back in the chair, watching the Doctor root around in his first-aid kit. 

“I have a syringe of epotine alfa,” Dr. Iplier said, holding it up for Dark to see. “It’ll help you replace the blood you’ve lost.”

“I don’t really do needles–”

“Shut up, Dark. You’re dying.”

Dark was silent, barely flinching when the Doctor plunged the needle into his arm, glaring at the syringe as though it had done him a personal wrong. 

“You’re not really dying,” Dr. Iplier muttered, covering the injection site with gauze. “I just needed you to hold still.”

“I know.”

Dr. Iplier looked up at Dark, face inches from his own, surveying the bandage wrapped around his arm. Suddenly awkward, he stumbled back. “D-do you feel anything else hurting?”

Dark shook his head, watching the Doctor carefully. “Is that all, then?”

Dr. Iplier nodded, clicking the first-aid kit shut. “You’ll be fine, Dark.”

“Thank you again, Doctor.”

He recognized the dismissal, and turned to leave. At the door, he turned to see Dark struggling to his feet. “Is this why you’ve been stalking me the past few weeks? Is this why you hurt Bim?”

Dark gave him a slimy smile, snapping his fingers to summon a fresh shirt and jacket out of thin air. “I needed to ascertain if your abilities could keep up with my, ah, recklessness.”

Dr. Iplier suppressed a shudder. Weakened and vulnerable as Dark was, he still managed to have little regard for the other Egos’ suffering. “You admit that this was reckless.”

Dark shrugged. “Someone has to keep the office safe.” He adjusted his jacket smoothly, waiting for the Doctor to leave.

Dr. Iplier turned to go. “Thanks for letting me help, Dark.” The words slipped out of him quickly, and he was almost ready to bolt from the room, listening for Dark’s reply.

“I apologize if I bothered you tonight, Doctor.”

With a slight smile, Dr. Iplier turned to Dark one last time. “You didn’t bother me, Dark. I’m always happy to help a friend.” With his words, he slipped out of Dark’s office, closing the door with a click. Dark was left behind, staring at the doorknob– speechless, for once.


End file.
